From Beyond the Beyond
by That's Professor Hawke
Summary: Once, I fell asleep in the real world and woke up in an entirely different universe. Never thought I'd be doing THAT again... Fadeshifter Series, Book 1-B
1. I: The Alienage

**Author's Note:** This story is a sort of tie-in (more of a timeline divergence, really) with my other self-insert fanfic, _Mass Effect: Insertion_, although the specifics of exactly what that entails won't be fully explained until later. However, my previous statement still stands: the _Mass Effect_ self-insert will only involve _Mass Effect_.

This story, on the other hand, will be somewhat influenced by the _Mass Effect _universe, in that one aspect of Nathan Redgrave's skillset from _Insertion_ carries into the _Dragon Age_ universe: his biotics. Beyond that, no overt _Mass Effect_ influence will intrude on this story. You won't be seeing any turians, asari, salarians, rachni, Reapers, or high-tech commandos on Thedas if _I_ have anything to say about it.

**Disclaimer:** The _Dragon Age_ games, novels, et cetera were developed and written by a charming little company called BioWare, and belong to them. I suppose they also belong to Electronic Arts, too... which reminds me, how could one of my favorite game companies wind up being bought by one of my least-favorite ones? Irony can be so cruel, sometimes. (I know I've said that exact same thing before, but it merits repeating!)

**~V~**

**From Beyond the Beyond  
**- a _Dragon Age_ fan-novel -  
by  
That's Professor Hawke

**~V~**

**- Chapter One -  
**"**The Alienage"**

**~V~**

The first thing I'm aware of is that my neck is... _incredibly _sore. A moment later, that sensation awakens me to my other senses and I sort of twitch-cringe-jump to a sitting position: wherever I am, it's most certainly not my sleeper pod on the _Normandy_, and the combined aromas of vomit, alcohol, and what might be sewage are too much for my delicate sensibilities to withstand. My eyes snap open and I find myself in yet another alleyway, without any explanation whatsoever.

My heart stops for a moment — I swear to the gods above, it really stopped beating. Then it kicks into overdrive and I stagger to a standing position, verily on the brink of hyperventilation at this point. I rub the sandy residue of slumber from my eyes and glance around, taking in my surroundings.

It's an alley, but not of the dark and metallic sort that one generally expects to find on most worlds in Council Space. Nor is it the sort of alley I know to be a trademark of my home dimension (I hail from twenty-first century Earth, circa Realityland, if you're wondering). It looks almost archaic, really, if alleyways can be described as such. Like, if I were to imagine what an alleyway would look like in the Iron Age, this would probably be my mental picture.

I grimace, rubbing at the back of my neck and twisting my head around in a vain effort to crack the pain away. It's obvious what's happened. Now I just need to gather my memories and try to figure out exactly what... there we go, I remember now. We'd just finished up on the Citadel after Eden Prime... proved Saren to be a traitorous prick and gotten the Council's leave to track him down in the Attican Traverse...

And I... went to sleep?

Yeah, that's right. I just went to sleep in my sleeper pod on the crew deck of the _Normandy SR-1_. I'm only Private First Class, or I guess, I only _was _a Private First Class in _that _world. I very much doubt that my military rank with the Systems Alliance counts for much... wherever I am right now.

I sigh heavily. Well, if I'm leaving behind the _Mass Effect_ universe so soon, at least I've left it without tampering with too much of what was "supposed" to happen. True, Jenkins never went anywhere near Eden Prime thanks to me, but with a little nudge from yours truly, Captain Anderson still decided to recruit Ashley Williams to the crew. Shepard should be alright. I just hope she doesn't think too badly of me if I turn out to have mysteriously gone A.W.O.L. with no discernible warning.

But this is troubling as all the hells. I thought waking up on the Citadel was a one-time event, a freak occurrence. It never even crossed my mind that I might find myself in the same situation again.

I look down at myself and take stock of my personal situation. I'm dressed in my Alliance fatigues from the _Normandy_, the set I use as sleepwear when I'm in my pod (I change into a different set when I'm on-duty). I don't have my Omni-tool or any kinetic barriers to speak of, as obviously I don't sleep in my hardsuit and I put my Omni-tool in my armor locker prior to turning in for the night. I don't even have my Kessler with me... no weapon to speak of, not even the bastardized version of the Omni-tool's melee blade that I rigged up in my Omni-tool for close-combat situations.

I only have the clothes on my back and my b— wait. Will biotics even work in this world?

I glance back and forth, running my fingers over the small metal port at the base of my skull into which my biotic amp is installed. The alleyway I'm in has three entrances, one of which is a closed door directly in front of me. Satisfied that I won't inadvertently spook the locals, I turn my attention to my own hand and attempt to fire off the Element Zero nodules in my nervous system.

And, with as little effort as ever, I generate a pulsing blue aura of biotic power around my right hand.

Smiling grimly, I let the flare die down and look around for something metal... there, the doorknob. I reach out, place my hand on it, and then draw back at the slight crackle of static electricity. Right, so the eezo nodules on my nerves made the transition along with everything else and still generate mass-effect fields as easily as ever they have. I'd better not use it if I don't have to, though. Quite apart from not wanting to scare the pants off of whoever lives in this backwater dimension, biotic powers burn calories like nobody's business, and I no longer have a source of food or income.

Well. Military training includes some kick-ass hand-to-hand stuff as well, it's not _all_ bang-bang and kaboom. I should be able to defend myself long enough to acquire a weapon a little more native to the culture. The ability to create anti-gravity fields with my mind is just a highly convenient ace in the hole.

Now... to find out what I can about where, and when, I am...

**~V~**

When stuck in an unknown place, one direction may strike you as being just as good as any other. I lucked out, or "unlucked" out, depending on your point of view. I left the alleyway I was in from the right-hand side, and wandered down a clearly medieval street — a few unsavory-looking folks passed me by on the way, leering at me, one of them in lecherous fashion despite possessing the same little dangly bits as all us dudes. That did creep me out some, less because I don't swing than way than because of how _old _he was. Wrinkly, one-eyed, and missing several teeth... if he'd opened his mouth, I would have been surprised if his voice hadn't been that of the old child molester character from _Family Guy_. That voice would have suited him so well.

Eventually, however, I found my way to what appeared to be a large open gate, flanked by a single armored guard. I briefly considered asking the guard for information, but he has an unpleasant look on his face beneath his steel helm, which only intensifies when he scrutinizes my unusual attire. Yes, sci-fi military fatigues are quite out of place in Middle-Earth, or Faerun, or wherever the bloody fuck I am right now. I'm going to have to do something about that, and fast, or I'm going to be answering some awkward questions.

I haven't seen enough of this place to say for sure yet, but from the feel of it, this isn't so much a town as a full-fledged city. Hopefully I can find someone charitable enough to answer my questions —

I stop dead and force myself to blink several times to keep my eyes from bugging out.

Elves. Elves, everywhere. Slender and pointy-eared, downtrodden and crowded all around, huddled around fires and munching on apples sitting at the side of the street, hauling chests, crates, or sacks across the way in two-man teams; washing dishes in the pond-like puddles at the side of the road in this walled-off slum within the city.

This is an _alienage_. An elven alienage, from the _Dragon Age_ series, the world known as Thedas.

And it's so much more repulsive in real life, when you can see the dirt and the rags, hear the pleas of the beggars, witness the day-to-day struggles of the victims in the flesh. This is... this is horrible. And people actually let this happen.

I notice that my fists are clenched rather tightly. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and unclench them. When I open them, I see that some of the bystanders are now staring at me. A pair of elves carrying a large barrel has even stopped dead in its tracks to gawk. I see a whole host of different faces amongst them, each with a different emotion displayed baldly and freely for all the world to know. I see bewilderment. Apprehension. Fear. Anger. A child standing next to his homely mother cranes to get a good look at me while said mother sneers a sneer worthy of the wickedest witch, a sneer that would have inspired instant dislike in me had I encountered it in circumstances less heartbreaking.

I take another deep breath, and I walk forward, tipping my head slightly and smiling at the pair with the barrel. Whether they take my expression as comforting or my acknowledgment as their cue to get the hell out of the way, they snap out of it and get moving again. As I move further into the alienage I find a more festive scene: streetside vendors selling fish and other foodstuffs, elven children running and playing on the street. Elf women in considerably nicer clothing than the ones sitting around on the outskirts are carrying baskets of flowers, and in the general direction they're heading, I see a slightly raised platform like a dance floor made of wood, and of course, there are elves dancing and sitting on the sidelines tipping back large mugs of mead or ale.

The scene is familiar, but it's been so long since I've played a_ Dragon Age_ game that I can't quite place —

"You lost, shem? Or did you come here to watch the 'knife-ears' at play?"

I give a little start and look over my shoulder at the source of the voice: a male elf leaning against the wall of a nearby house, dressed in a plain green outfit. His skin is darker in tone than other elves, his hair short and dirty blonde. He looks familiar... I know I've seen him in _Dragon Age: Origins_, but I'm drawing blanks on the who and the where. It doesn't help that this universe adheres more to the _Dragon Age II_ art style; all of the elves in this place are much thinner than the ones in _Origins_, with more prominent ears and rather unique facial structure (particularly 'round the nose).

I turn around, grinning sheepishly and thinking fast. After a moment I rub the back of my neck and say, "Lost actually, messere. I apologize for wandering in on these festivities; I know my people haven't exactly been... kind... to your own, so I imagine my presence puts a bit of a damper on the mood."

The tan-skinned elf's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He obviously didn't expect me to be so respectful. Well, I'm certainly glad I was obsessive enough to actually look up which _Dragon Age_ formal titles mean this or that back when I was just a lazy layabout gamer wasting my life in front of a flatscreen.

"Well," he says, "no offense to you personally, shemlen, but the alienage isn't exactly a good place for humans to be."

"From the looks of it, it's also a pretty oppressive place for elves to be," I note with a touch of genuine affront to my voice. "I don't know what city I'm in right now, but I guess it's the same everywhere. At least this alienage is a bit less packed-in than Kirkwall's."

"You don't know what city you're in?" the elf asks incredulously.

"...It's a long story..." I sigh. "One that involves a trio of half-mad blood mages, a random abduction, a fight for my life, and waking up in a backstreet alley in the middle of who-knows-where with not a dagger or copper to my name."

"Blood mages?" the elf echoes, aghast. "Dear Maker, you're lucky to be alive!"

"True enough," I say. "I don't suppose you could enlighten me as to my current location, could you, um, messere...?"

"The name's Taeodor," says the elf. "And this," he adds, waving an arm vaguely at the surrounding environ, "is the glorious city of Denerim."

"Denerim?" I choke, and not entirely without real distress, either; now I know what these festivities must be. "As in, the capital of Ferelden? How far did those blighted mages take me, anyway?"

"You said... you hail from Kirkwall?" Taeodor says.

"Yeah..." I breath. "I knew we'd been traveling for a long time, but..." For effect, I take a small step back, close my eyes, and massage the bridge of my nose. (And now I've noticed that my neck-ache has spread to my forehead. Lovely.) "...I'm sorry, Messere Taeodor, this is a lot to wrap my head around."

"I can imagine," says the elf. "Lost and alone with no money clear on the other side of the sea from where you started. I wish I could offer you more than words."

"I suppose I should count my blessings and be glad I was carted off to Ferelden rather than Tevinter." I glance around at the festivities and say, "What's the occasion, if you don't mind my asking?"

Taeodor pushes himself off the wall and turns to get a better view of the celebrating elves on the dance platform. "Weddings, as a matter of fact," he says. "A double wedding. We expected to have them later in the week, but the bride and groom arrived a bit early, so," he lets out a small chuckle, "my dear friend Soris is being chained down a bit earlier than anticipated."

"Hm," I hum thoughtfully. "If I recall, these weddings tend to be arranged matches between families, yes?"

Taeodor blinks and says, "Yes, actually."

I grin wryly. "I had a friend who holed up in the Kirkwall alienage for a while, an elf of course. Nicer girl you'd never find anywhere in all of Thedas. Learned a lot about elves from her, but she left Kirkwall a while back to seek her fortune elsewhere. Haven't heard from her since."

"I see," Taeodor murmurs.

"Say, Messere Taeodor," I say, "a wedding of this size probably requires clean-up. Washing of dishes after the festivities, putting stuff away, that kind of thing. Who would I talk to if I wanted to offer to pitch in, say, in exchange for lodging and a meal or something? I don't exactly have the coin to rent a room at the inn."

Taeodor frowns. "I'm not sure that's such a great idea," he says, "but I suppose you don't have many other options right now, do you? If you like, I could try to explain your situation to Valendrian, but —"

"Is this Valendrian your hahren?" I ask.

"Indeed," he confirms. "Just try not to draw attention to yourself. Some of the boys are pretty deep in drink; I'm afraid one of them might do something stupid."

"I know how to defend myself without necessarily causing injury to my attacker," I say. "Don't worry about me. I'll just try to be as inconspicuous as I can and hope it doesn't come to that."

"Might be a bit difficult in those odd clothes of yours, messere...?"

"Nathan," I say. "Nathan Redgrave. It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Taeodor."

"Likewise, messere Redgrave," he says. "Follow me and stick close. Nobody should cause any problems if you're with me."

"Will do," I reply, and we set out into the chaos of the alienage festivities, taking care not to bump into anyone as I follow in his wake.

**~V~**

Taeodor only has to stop and ask where Valendrian is one time. From there it was a straight shot to the Elder's house. I come to a halt a short distance behind Taeodor, folding my hands behind my back in an unconscious "at ease" position as Taeodor knocks three times on Valendrian's front door. The house is a small one, barely a step above a hovel, squeezed next to another house of similar size. It takes barely ten seconds for the door to open. A venerable-looking elf answers the door, but he moves and speaks with the strength and vigor of a man barely into his thirties.

"Taeodor," greets Valendrian. "Has a human visitor arrived in the alienage, by any chance? I wasn't expecting him for a few hours yet, but —" But his eyes meet mine, and he pauses mid-sentences, mouth open slightly in puzzlement.

"You were expecting this man, Elder?" Taeodor asks.

"I get the feeling you're referring to a different human visitor, Messere Valendrian," I say politely. "I simply wished to ask if you would consider allowing me lodging and perhaps a meal for the night in exchange for labor... help with the festivities or the clean-up after the wedding, perhaps. I find myself unwillingly taken far from home with no means to actually do anything about it."

Valendrian eyes me with a measured stare, as if trying to determine whether or not I'm trustworthy, but it's not exactly unkind like some of the other elves I've passed on the way here. His gaze drifts down to take in my unusual attire and lingers there for a few seconds. After a moment he steps aside from the door and says, "It's best we discuss this in private, young man. Come inside and sit down."

"Thank you for agreeing to hear me out, Elder," I say with a slight bow of my head. As I step into his house — which feels only slightly larger from within than it did from without — "I wouldn't trouble you or your people at all if my situation weren't so... well..."

"I'll get back to the celebrations now, if you don't need me here any longer," says Taeodor.

I turn and smile at the tan-skinned elf and hold out a my hand. "I appreciate your help, Taeodor."

He shrugs, shakes my hand briefly, and replies, "It was no trouble. I hope you can get back on your feet and back to Kirkwall soon, Nathan."

"As do I," I agree.

Taeodor departs, and I close the door, turning to face Valendrian, who is moving further into the hovel. "Please, sit down," he says graciously. "As it happens, young man, one of the men who had volunteered to help with clean-up has taken ill, and we haven't quite the means to suitably pay for a replacement. You say you're willing to work for a night of shelter and a meal?"

"If you could point me in the direction of some additional work as well, that would also be appreciated," I say, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of the table. "I don't actually live anywhere in Ferelden, you see, and passage back to the Free Marches takes coin."

"What brings you so far from home, if you don't mind me asking?" asks Valendrian.

"A trio of mad apostates took me from Kirkwall," I say bluntly, going into full-tilt Cover Story Invention Mode. Much like Stephen King, I do my best storytelling when I bullshit as I go. "I was wandering the Wounded Coast, you see, hoping for inspiration..."

"Inspiration for what?"

"I've long been troubled by the state of the Templar Order in Kirkwall," I say. "Knight-Commander Meredith is a bit of a tyrant as Templar commanders go, and I fear she will one day drive the mages to revolt. Certainly there seem to be more incidents of blood magic and demonic influence in that area than in most other places, and far from thinking the city itself is cursed, I believe it to be a direct result of Templar oppression. I was trying to think of the best way to word my arguments, maybe for a manifesto of sorts. I had hoped perhaps that if a significant enough portion of the city could be convinced that oppressing mages would only make them more dangerous, there might be some changes made, but... well, the Maker has a killer sense of humor, I guess. I found myself abducted by blood mages as I wandered. Normally I'm fairly decent in a fight, but what's one man to do against three mages at once when they have surprise on their side?"

"Quite," murmurs Valendrian. "How did you escape these mages?"

"They got complacent, simple as that," I say. "Had they abducted anyone else, I imagine their captive wouldn't have stood a chance, but this isn't the first time I've been taken prisoner and forced to seize freedom on my own. I suppose I should count myself lucky the sleep spell wore off exactly when it did, though. I managed to fight my way out — killed the first two mages before they could rightly react, but the third gave me trouble. I was hard-pressed to win that fight, but win it I did. The ordeal tired me out, however. I'm not sure exactly what happened after that, it gets fuzzy from there. All I know is that I woke on the cold, hard ground in an alley not far from this alienage a short time ago. I can't even say how much time has passed since I dispatched my mage captors."

"You are lucky to have survived at all, if blood magic was involved," Valendrian says. "Have you reported these mages to the Templars —?"

"No," I say sharply, and my feelings on this matter are genuine enough that I don't have to fake it at all this time. "I've seen too much cruelty in Kirkwall to put any trust in them, and as I said, I killed the mages that did this to me. What point would there be in bothering the Templars with this now?"

Valendrian nods in acceptance. "So all that remains is food and shelter. If you would be willing to do work for us around the alienage for a time, I would be happy to allow you to stay here until you can find your feet elsewhere. Is that arrangement acceptable to you?"

"It is," I say, the gratitude sincere in my voice. "To be honest, I wasn't expecting to be allowed to stay even for one night. My people have not been kind to yours."

"Even so, it does no one any good to cling to those old hatreds in the face of those who would all too willingly move past them," Valendrian responds. Then, he stands. "I don't wish to cut this short, but I have duties to attend to elsewhere, and I'm expecting a... guest... to arrive soon."

"That other human you were expecting when you let me in just now, I assume?" I say. "If you'd like, I could keep an eye out for him."

"That would be welcome," Valendrian says, sounding a bit like he isn't looking forward to this particular guest... well, he's waiting for the Warden-Commander of Ferelden to show up with a recruitment offer for the young elf currently celebrating his or her own wedding, so I suppose that _would_ be awkward, wouldn't it?


	2. II: The Warden Commander

**Disclaimer:** The _Dragon Age_ games, novels, et cetera were developed and written by a charming little company called BioWare, and belong to them. I suppose they also belong to Electronic Arts, too... which reminds me, how could one of my favorite game companies wind up being bought by one of my least-favorite ones? Irony can be so cruel, sometimes. (I know I've said that exact same thing before, but it merits repeating!)

**~V~**

**- Chapter Two -  
**"**The Warden-Commander"**

**~V~**

So it is that I find myself hovering in the shadows a ways back from the pre-wedding celebrations, making myself as inconspicuous as possible. Valendrian has spread word of my permission to attend, of course, but there's no sense in tempting fate. Not every elf is going to be as accommodating as their hahren; the Elder of the alienage is known as the "oldest soul" for a reason, that reason being that every other elf in his charge is likely to be marginally stupider than the hahren himself.

I stand a short way away from the house I _think_ I recall to be that of the still-sleeping bride. So far, I know this much: according to Taeodor, the elves coming from Highever are a bride _and_ a groom, and since I'm reasonably sure Soris is still a man being wed to a lady... that would make Tabris a female. I'm curious, though... when I found myself stranded in the sci-fi universe of _Mass Effect_, I found that Commander Shepard was not only female but exactly the same in pretty much every way as the female, red-haired Paragon who I tend to play as when I play the series in question. And it so happens that my most oft-used Warden character in _Dragon Age: Origins_ is a female City Elf by the name of Shèirra Tabris... red-haired and green-eyed like Kaelyn Shepard, as a matter of fact, and also very "Paragon" in nature. Will _this _Tabris be the same as mine, as Shepard was? Or is that like expecting lightning to strike the same spot twice in two minutes?

I'm only paying half of my attention as I wait down the street from the Tabris residence, leaning easily against the side of a house at a place where I have a decent view of the crowd. Even if I didn't already know what Duncan looked like, it would be a simple matter to pick a human out of a crowd of elves from this viewpoint — doubly so because of the _Dragon Age II_-ishness of the elven anatomy. Duncan's facial-hair-laden, tall-and-built profile is bound to stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd. Easier than a beginner-level "Where's Waldo?" picture.

So I let my mind wander to more personal concerns. Like, for instance... Templars. I'm not a mage and I'm in no danger of demonic possession, _I_ know that, but it occurs to me that I can't expect the Chantry to know the difference between magic and biotics. So I probably shouldn't use my powers to entertain children at parties... and I should probably learn how to use a sword or something. There's a goddamn Blight on the horizon, after all, and a civil war on top of that. It wouldn't be a good idea to neglect self-defense, and all of that marksmanship training I went through in the Systems Alliance has effectively been rendered a moot point.

I heave a forlorn sigh, dutifully scanning the crowd even though I know not to expect Duncan to arrive until after Tabris wakes up. And after Vaughan gets bashed on the head with a...

_Fuck._

Why, damn it? Why didn't I walk off in the other direction when I woke up in that alley? Wandered into the brothel, maybe, convinced Isabela to let me on her crew or something? Why of all the messes I could have landed in, did it have to be the Hero of Ferelden's origin story? Even waking up in Lothering and getting wrapped up in the whole Champion of Kirkwall business would be better than this... at least then, if I fuck up, I'm not inadvertently destroying the world. This is exactly why I didn't want to get mixed up with Shepard's squad in the first place, and here I am, standing on the edge of the fiasco that starts the Hero of Ferelden on the path to ending the Fifth Blight.

And I won't be able to stop myself from sticking my nose in when I see that poncy bastard in front of me, won't be able to stop myself from doing everything I can to protect the elven women from rape at the hands of Vaughan and his merry band of morons... because I'm too noble to put pragmatism before altruism, even if I know I might prevent the Hero of Ferelden from becoming a Grey Warden at all by stepping in now!

Fuck my life. Sometimes I wish I'd grown up to be a bit more of an asshole. Everything would be so much simpler if I had.

So the question is, how best do I go about protecting as many as I can without royally fudging up the timel—

"Huh. They said there was a shem hanging around. I almost didn't believe them."

I blink twice and snap my head to the left, where a young, female elf with braided red hair stands about half a car's distance from me, her arms crossed and a suspicious, skeptical expression on her face. She's looking at me, but her body's turned toward the Tabris household... and despite the skinnier anatomy of _Dragon Age II_ elves, I recognize this one as none other than the heroine's cousin, Shianni.

The one who actually _does _get raped. God, like I needed _that _guilt trip just now!

Shianni archs an eyebrow and says, "You feeling alright, shem? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's nothing," I say quickly, casting around for an excuse — for my feelings must have shown on my face just then. "You just look a lot like this elf friend I had a while back in Kirkwall." (_Well,_ I muse, _she does kind of have the same hairstyle as Merrill does, so it's not entirely untrue..._) "I haven't seen her in years. You just spooked me."

"O-ho, the high and mighty shem deigns to consort with elves," Shianni says in a bored tone of voice. "Pardon me if I don't take you at your word, stranger. I've seen too many —"

"— too many elves abused and/or taken advantage of by supposedly well-meaning or outright nasty humans?" I cut in cheerfully. "Yeah, that happens a lot back home, too. You don't have to trust me, messere. Even if I wished any of you harm, there's too many of you and too few of me for me to actually do anything."

Shianni snorts and pays me no further mind, continuing on her way to the house where the local bride still slumbers.

I heave another sigh. Well, I wonder, what's the worst that could happen? I nail Vaughan's poncy ass with a Singularity and get branded an apostate, swarmed by Templars, and forced to live a life on the run without due cause, maybe? And in the process remove the Hero of Ferelden from the equation, perhaps being the cause of that lovely DLC adventure known as the Darkspawn Chronicles?

And then he walks into sight and my jaw drops.

_No way_. But he's here! Duncan wasn't supposed to get here until after Vaughan makes his first appearance, but there's no mistaking that beard and ponytail. I push myself off the wall and make my way toward him, feeling for all the world like my lungs have spontaneously emptied themselves. Well, shit. Never mind the timeline discrepancy... this is Duncan, for crying out loud! Duncan, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden himself! I feel an intense burst of hero-worship coming on. Must... not... succumb...

I give myself a little mental shake and quash that particular emotion. I've stood in the presence of Commander Shepard herself, for crying out loud! Once you've basked in _that_ reflected glory, you've basked in it all. Still, it's not even just _Origins_ that I know Duncan from; I've read _The Calling_, and I know all about that mess with King Maric and the Architect's grand scheme to infect the entire world with Super-AIDS in a mad attempt to create a peace between Thedas and the darkspawn horde. Duncan is one of my favorite characters in the _Dragon Age_ universe, despite how little relative screen-time he gets.

I skirt around the crowd, making my way to the other side of the great tree known as the Vhenadahl, and as I approach I raise my voice and say, "Hail, Serah! Are you the guest that the hahren was expecting, or did you have one tankard too many at the tavern and wander in by accident like I did?"

Duncan, who had been standing at ease and observing the crowd with his hands folded behind his back, turned to look at me, and it strikes me how much more wizened his face looks in real life. "Well met, friend. Yes, Valendrian is expecting me. I must say, I was not expecting to see any other humans in the alienage today."

"And I wasn't expecting to find myself so far from Kirkwall, but hey, we take the cards the fates deal us, no?" I say. "I will admit I'm surprised at how... well-armed the Elder's guest is. He never said he was expecting a warrior." I extend my right hand. "Well met, Serah. I am Nathan Redgrave, a guest of Valendrian's for the moment."

Duncan smiles slightly and grips my hand firmly as he shakes it. "I am Duncan, leader of the Grey Wardens here in Ferelden... although at present that doesn't mean much; there aren't nearly enough of us within our borders, particularly in light of impending events."

"Impending events?" I ask. "Wait, hold that thought... you say you're a Grey Warden? What brings a member of your order to an alienage? Get wind of a potential recruit, or something? I hardly think any of these elves are hiding genlocks under their beds, after all."

Duncan laughs ruefully. "Indeed, though that would be a memorable position to encounter one in. As it is, you guessed correctly: I have come in search of a recruit. As for your first question... the worst has happened. A Blight has begun."

"A Blight?" I say, crinkling my brow in order to play the skeptic. "As in, one of those 'the bulk of the darkspawn masses erupt from the Deep Roads to ravage the surface at the behest of a great hulking evil dragon god' Blight? Now?"

"Unfortunately so," Duncan affirms gravely. "The darkspawn horde even now amasses to the south, out of the Korcari Wilds beyond the ruins at Ostagar."

"Well," I say lightly, "that puts my problems into perspective, doesn't it? If I might ask, did you have a specific recruit in mind?"

"I do indeed," answers Duncan. "Some years ago, I came to this alienage to extend an offer to an elven woman whose skill as a warrior had earned her a... reputation among the citizens of Denerim."

I quirk my head a bit to one side. "She turned it down?"

"I never made the offer," Duncan admits. "She had just married, you see, and Valendrian convinced me not to intrude on her family life. Becoming a Grey Warden means leaving such things behind... as there was no Blight and no immediate need, I deferred to his wishes."

"But with a Blight on the horizon, you figured it time to extend that offer to this woman?" I prompt.

"To her daughter, in fact," Duncan says. "Adaia was murdered years ago... as I understand it, she drew the ire of one of Denerim's nobles and was killed during an escape from the Arl's dungeons. I wonder if, perhaps, had I not backed down all those years ago, she might at least yet live to defend Ferelden from the darkspawn. But it does not do to dwell on such things now. I only know that Adaia passed her skills onto her child, and I was hoping to assess whether or not her daughter is as promising a candidate."

"Hm," I hum thoughtfully. "Well, I only just stumbled into the alienage today, so I couldn't comment on this elf's combat ability. I'm not even familiar with the use of arms, myself, so I wouldn't even be a decent judge."

"Are you not?" Duncan asks, seeming surprised. "Beg pardon, ser, but you appear to have the build and bearing of one familiar with combat. Am I mistaken?"

"Oh, I can hold my own, just not with a sword or anything," I say slowly. "I'd love to learn how to fight with one, but you know how it is to find a decent teacher without joining the guard or the army. I just want to learn how to protect myself and the people I care about."

"Do you, now," murmurs Duncan. "If you would like, and if you are still interested after the Blight has been ended, I could perhaps find you a suitable instructor."

I blink and suddenly the warning bells are going haywire in my brain. "Beg pardon, serah, I'm not usually one to look a gift griffon in the mouth, but... why would a Grey Warden take an interest in my combat instruction? Surely you have more important matters to occupy your time with?"

"In truth," Duncan says, "you have a certain air about you, a certain... presence of character, I suppose one might say. The Grey Warden numbers in Ferelden are far too few as it stands, and I have no delusions that we might escape this Blight without casualties. In time, with training, I am curious to see whether you might make for a promising candidate yourself."

"Thinking ahead, then," I sigh. "To be blunt, Duncan, I'm not entirely sure I'd make a good Grey Warden. For one thing, I just don't have it in me to be politically neutral on certain matters... say, for example, the Chantry and their stance on mages, or —" I gesture vaguely at the alienage around me, "— mankind's treatment of elves, as a matter of fact. I do wish to do something about those things, but if I'm tied to an organization sworn to abstain from taking sides, I won't exactly be able to do that, will I? Wasn't it because a Warden broke that very neutrality that your order was expelled from Ferelden in the first place?"

"Indeed it was," Duncan says. "And I respect that you've given this matter due consideration. Still, your position may change in time. My offer stands, if you're willing to take it when the time comes."

"I appreciate it, don't get me wrong," I say, holding up my arms in a placating gesture. "And it's certainly heartening that you believe I might have it in me to be a Warden, serah, but my battles are focused on the state of the world more than anything... which, in truth, might be just as important in the war against the Blights as your own efforts."

"True enough," Duncan admits.

"I will consider it," I say. Yeah, of course I will. Too bad I won't have a chance to take you up on that, though, considering you'll be _dead_ in a few weeks... "At any rate, I'm wasting time. I was supposed to alert Valendrian to your arrival —"

But as I speak, Duncan's gaze is drawn away from mine and his brow creases in apprehension. I stop speaking abruptly as I realize where his eyes must be going, what inevitable event must have distracted him, and I turn to see a small gathering of elves, two in relatively fine clothing... and a small group of human nobles approaching them from behind. My eyes are drawn to the one who walks front and center at the head of this poncy rabble, a blonde man whose neatly-bearded face is twisted into a predatory sneer.

Vaughan!

Without hesitation, almost as if my body moves on its own, I growl low in my throat and my feet carry me toward the approaching nobles. I barely register that Duncan had already begun moving toward them at a more cautious pace.

As the nobles near the gathering of elves — which happens to include Shianni — Vaughan sneaks up behind the woman on the far left: a pretty, dark-haired elf who shrieks at his touch and lets out a strangled cry.

"Let go of me! Stop, please!"

She wrenches herself from Vaughan's grasp, but he seems wholly unconcerned as she flees from him as fast as her bridesmaid's dress lets her.

"It's a party, isn't it?" asks Vaughan rhetorically, leering from one finely-dressed elf girl to the next. "Grab a whore and have a good time!" he adds with a glance toward his fellows and a quite admirable Stereotypical Evil Laugh that I'd have complimented him on were he an actor rather than an actual stereotypical bad guy.

None of his men notice as I approach, but my footsteps falter as I see two other elves stop in their tracks nearby. One, who is unmistakably Soris, surveys the ensuing scene with caution, but the other — a red-haired, shapely young female with sharp, slanted green eyes, looks on with a set jaw and and a kind of unruffled, quiet sort of indignation. Good grief, it _is _Shèirra! _My _Shèirra! Will these psychotic wonders never cease?

"Savor the hunt, boys," says Vaughan, in that sneeringly superior voice of his. His gaze zeroes in on Shianni and he adds, "Take this little elven wench, here... so young and vulnerable..."

"Touch me and I'll gut you, you pig!" snaps Shianni.

Alarmed, the red-haired man next to her raises his arms in a warding motion toward Vaughan. "Please, my lord! We're celebrating weddings, here!"

In two powerful strides, Vaughan closes the distance between him and the man who dared speak out. "_Silence_, worm!" he snarls, and next thing anyone knows, the male elf is in the dirt, having felt the force of the noble's admirable backhand.

"I know what you're thinking," I hear Soris mutter to his cousin, "but maybe we shouldn't get involved."

"Objection noted," Shèirra says firmly, and rather loudly. "Now get out of my way."

"Fine," replies Soris. "But let's try to be diplomatic, shall we?"

"What's _this?_" Vaughan asks in a husky voice, turning from Shianni to approach Shèirra instead. "Another lovely one come to keep me company?"

"Dream on, human," Shèirra says in a low, calm voice, looking up at the much taller human noble without so much as flinching. Quietly, I have to admire her courage... something about her reminds me so much of Shepard, that strength and aura of leadership that you just can't help but get behind...

Vaughan scoffs. As he does I see Shianni scamper away, making for a nearby bottle of brandy that someone had set down on a tree stump not far away. Oh, dear...

"Do you have _any _idea who I am?" snarls Vaughan.

"Oh! Oh!" I say, raising my hand and bouncing on the balls of my feet as if eager to answer a question in kindergarten. "I know this one, I've got it! Hang on, it'll come to me... um... aha!" I snap my fingers in triumph. "_The Empress of Orlais!_"

The desired effect was to draw Vaughan's attention and to give Shianni time to know just who she was about to brain with a glass bottle _before _she did so. As luck would have it, I get both. Shianni, her fist clenched around the neck of the brandy bottle, catches my eye and raises her free hand to cover her suddenly smiling mouth. Vaughan's head snaps toward mine with a vicious snarl and he practically rushes at me, screaming, "You will mind your tongue before the son of the Arl, _churl!_"

The swing of his arm, another of those spectacular backhands of his, presents the most fantastic opening; I might as well be fighting a rabid, charging French poodle with no teeth, no claws, and both of its eyes blindfolded with a frilly little silk ribbon. My arm shoots up with reflexes honed in spars with Alliance recruits far more experienced in the martial arts than this dandy, and I twist around with his right arm firmly in my grip. In one fluid and oh so satisfying motion I've slammed Vaughan into the muck of the alienage road, his arm twisted and pinned behind his back and my knee driven none too gently into his lower spine.

"The Arl's son?" I say, sounding for all the world like a disappointed child at Christmas who's unwrapped his first box of long-johns. "Well, that's not nearly as impressive. _Should_ I be impressed?" I ask, looking up at Shèirra, who appears startled by this turn of events.

"Release — me —!" chokes Vaughan, his one free arm flailing at an awkward and possibly painful angle as he kicks and struggles beneath me. With a shrug, I let go of his arm, hop to my feet, and deliver a swift and hard kick to his family jewels before he even has a chance to register that he's free to get up now.

The Arl's son lets out a high-pitched shriek and shrinks into a fetal position on the ground, shuddering with that brand of agony only men ever know... but I only pay this a moment's mind, as I turn on my heel to face the enraged but wary young lords that accompanied Vaughan on this perverse little escapade... completely unarmed, by the way, just like Vaughan himself. Never could wrap my skull around why they only brought weapons along _after_ being trounced the first time, but I suppose if these ravenous wolves were intelligent enough to take precautions, they'd be intelligent enough not to do stupid shit like this in the first place.

"So," I say cheerfully. "Which one of you wants to find out what the street tastes like next?"

"You — you —" splutters one of the nobles, raising an impotent hand to point at me in what he undoubtedly thinks is an imperious way. "This'll go badly for you!" he declares. "You can't just strike the Arl of Denerim's son and get away with it!"

"I don't care if he's Queen of Rivain," I say. "I'll kick his arse and _all _your arses if you don't get your dandy behinds out of this alienage..._ now_."

Not needing to be told twice, and already edging toward their curled-up ringleader as it was, the nobles scramble toward Vaughan and help him up. He casts me a glare as his fellows help him up, nothing less than a slow, painful murder in his eyes as he departs on the shoulder of one of his comrades, bow-legged and twitching.

"Well," I say, relaxing from my defensive position and rubbing at the back of my neck as I look from Shèirra to Shianni and lastly to the dark-haired elf woman that Vaughan had initially manhandled. "I just know this is going to bite me in the ass later, but never mind that now. That ponce didn't hurt anyone, did he?"

"N-no," says the dark-haired girl. "Just shook me up a bit, is all."

Shianni, still clutching the brandy bottle, eyes me with suspicion. "You, shem," she says. "Why did you just do that? Stick your neck out for elves?"

"Do I need a reason to _not_ sit by and watch as evil bastards do what they please to ordinary, decent folk?" I answer wearily, dropping my arms to my sides and frowning at the elf. Seriously, I don't remember Shianni being _this _big on the whole never-trust-shemlen thing, but it occurs to me that the only real scene the game has in which she has a chance to show that side of herself is if you talk to her as a non-elven Hero. "Besides, you were about to brain the Arl's son with a bottle. That wouldn't have ended well."

Sudden realization flits across Shianni's face and her eyes dart to the bottle gripped in her hands, then back to me. "Oh —" she says breathlessly. "Oh..."

I shrug and say, "It's better this way. A random human traveler from Kirkwall doesn't have to worry as much about retribution in this case, not as much as you would, anyway. _I_ don't give a nug's butt about the nobles in this town, but _you _have to live here."

With the terrified air of one handling armed explosives, Shianni gingerly returns the bottle to its original place on the tree stump nearby. Shèirra Tabris merely looks at me with a crinkled brow, as if not entirely sure what she's seeing just yet.

Then Valendrian calls out from some distance away: "What's going on over here? Is there trouble?" All of the elves turn their attention away from me and toward their hahren, and it's rather like that annoyingly bright light in an interrogation room being turned away from you at last, if the truth be put to print.

Still, as the elven bystanders recount the disturbance to Valendrian, and as Shèirra and Soris are finally introduced to their respective betrothed, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that by sticking my nose into this mess I've already dug myself in over my head. If I were less distracted by thoughts of Vaughan and wonderings about how to resolve this situation with minimal trauma to the elves of Denerim's alienage, it might strike me as significant that Duncan is watching me with a little more interest than before.

But that's the kind of detail that only makes sense in hindsight.

**~V~**

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry that my rate of updates has slowed lately, and that I haven't been giving due attention to the stories I started early on (such as _The Whims of Fate_). I intend to write more over the next few months, as I'll be starting classes at ITT Technical Institute in June and want to get as much done with my remaining free time as I can before college steals it all away. Just so you all know, however, once June rolls around I might go dark for long periods of time. Real life is more important than fiction, sadly.


End file.
